<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Tsunami by parrillawilson</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657347">Tsunami</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrillawilson/pseuds/parrillawilson'>parrillawilson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass (2007)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, Set after S2E5, talk of death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrillawilson/pseuds/parrillawilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lyra, why hasn’t she left like the others? What’s she still doing here?” Pantalaimon, always the more cautious of the two, whispered in her ear. Lyra ignored him for a moment, shifting her weight. One leg had stiffened, cramping, but she brushed the pain aside and leant the side of her face against the tree trunk. “Lyra! She’ll see you!”</p><p>-</p><p>Witches whisper of the death of the Child of Prophecy as Lyra turns the tables on Mrs. Coulter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lyra Belacqua &amp; Marisa Coulter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ripple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lyra could feel her daemon pawing at her shoulder, the anxious twitching of his nose against her ear, mouse formed. Thick, glum clouds ensured that it was easy enough for the pair of them to crouch, concealed behind a large oak tree. The location was beautiful and lay in the outskirts of London, near where the girl had once lived with Mrs. Coulter, a female scholar, who had promised to teach her all about the North. If Lyra had learnt anything during her stay, it was that she found learning through doing and seeing easiest. Books weren’t what she was best at and she knew from staring, wide-eyed out of the zeppelin windows that such a stunning, large area beside the busy, crowded streets of London must be a unique and special place.</p><p> </p><p>“Lyra, why hasn’t she left like the others? What’s she still doing here?” Pantalaimon, always the more cautious of the two, whispered in her ear. Lyra ignored him for a moment, shifting her weight. One leg had stiffened, cramping, but she brushed the pain aside and rested the side of her face against the tree trunk. “Lyra! She’ll see you!”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up then,” she replied, only mildly agitated. Pan was right, they were too close and they mustn’t be seen. Shifting backwards behind the tree, Lyra set her daemon with a daring stare, “I’m gonna get a closer look.” With barely a glance above, the girl jumped, both arms wrapping around a low-hanging branch.  Swinging her legs up to encircle the branch, she easily twisted herself up and began climbing higher.</p><p> </p><p>“Be careful, Lyra…” Pantalaimon scurried from her shoulder, and morphed into a small wildcat, fur camouflaged and blending into brown.</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanna see what she’s up to … you know her.” Once they were high enough, Lyra straightened out, arms spread wide for balance as she walked along a thick branch as though it were a tightrope.</p><p> </p><p>“Is she … crying?” Pantalaimon’s whispered voice echoed through Lyra's head as she bent her knees, arms holding onto the branch, though her eyes were fixed on the sight of a broken woman below her.</p><p> </p><p>There was no need for the child to answer her daemon. The woman, Mrs. Coulter, her mother, who had committed the most hideous of actions was standing still. Lyra might have thought her frozen if not for the occasional twitch of her shoulders or the hand that reached upwards, just once, to brush beneath her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Lyra should have felt triumphant, entirely gleeful for giving the woman she swore she despised a taste of her own medicine. However, as she watched the ever-controlled brunette falter when seemingly alone, no such feelings filled her. Instead, a frown dented her forehead and she questioned her choices, for it was her own funeral, but she had not been buried.</p><p> </p><p><em>‘I think we made a mistake, Pan,”</em> she thought to her daemon, <em>“I don’t think we done the right thing after all.” </em>It had been fabricated, her ‘death’. Lyra thought it would help her escape her mother and be free to go on her own journey, without being continuously followed and tracked down.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘We had to. We had no choice, she’d never give up searching! Serafina wouldn’t have helped us spread the word of your death or helped us with… whatever is really inside that coffin if it were a bad idea. Besides, she pretended she was dead to us for twelve years!’</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘It still don’t feel right. This en’t the way.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Later that evening, as darkness spread across the sky, dimming what little light had escaped until not even the stars shone in the sky, Lyra and her daemon returned to a place they had never expected nor wanted to set eyes on again. It felt strange, that only a few months had passed since the night she had escaped through the penthouse window of the large bedroom that never truly felt her own. So much had happened since. Now, she was back and stronger in every way. Ready to seek her mother out for herself and admit she was still alive, to do the right thing. The thing, she found with confusion and intensifying nausea, she <em>wanted</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Quietly, Pan. We don’t want her to hear us coming.” She had climbed the outdoor, metal staircase as high as it reached and had begun to scale the side of the building, with more confidence than before.</p><p> </p><p>"We could just use the main entrance, y'know. You could fall and you can't change into a bird like I can!"</p><p> </p><p>"No. Everyone thinks I'm dead. The doorman will tell Mrs. Coulter. We have to surprise her."</p><p> </p><p>Pan, a small magpie, nodded and flew up ahead, returning moments later. Lyra looked up at him expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>“The window to your old room is open. There are no lights on in there. We should be able to get in!”</p><p> </p><p>Nodding decisively, Lyra continued climbing, watching her footing. The sheer drop below should she fall somewhat distracted her from the nerves she could never deny at the thought of facing Mrs. Coulter. Either way, she felt as though her insides were spinning relentlessly.</p><p> </p><p>As a little girl, she had liked to think she was as brave as her Uncle. Pan had darted beside her, a tiny leopard cub, as they had explored Jordan College’s roof for the first time. Now a preteen and no longer a naïve toddler, she had experienced what it felt like to be scared. The only difference was that she had learnt to master her fears.</p><p> </p><p>Reaching the window ledge, Lyra squinted into the room, unable to see anything, not even a slither of light beneath the bedroom door. Perhaps her mother hadn’t returned yet? They would have the element of surprise and she would be in control this time. It was perfect.</p><p> </p><p>With Pan by her side, ermine formed, she swung her legs up and over the ledge, the two of them dropping down into the darkened bedroom. It was silent, but something did not feel at all right. Focusing on slowing her breathing as still as possible, she heard movement, a click of a light switch, and then warm orange flooded the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Lyra…” Mrs. Coulter’s whisper was strangled, starved of oxygen, as though a cat had clawed its way down all of her vocal cords.</p><p> </p><p>Lyra felt her heartbeat in her ears, blood rushing. This was what she wanted, to reveal she was alive, but now she wondered whether this was crueler, and Pan wriggled between her shoulder-length hair in his tiniest form. Words were lost on her as she noticed the room was in disarray. It appeared as though all of her belongings from Jordan College had found their way here. There were photos, ordered in neat lines, on the duvet, photos from her infanthood right up until a few months before she left Oxford. The rest of her things were scattered, littered around the room as though thrown in a fit of rage. Postcards from Lord Asriel had been ripped in half and her map of the world looked as though it had been shredded by sharp claws. Her teddy bear, the tattered one she’d had for as long as she could remember, was clutched tightly in the woman’s arms, held against her chest.</p><p>It took more courage than facing Iofur Raknison, to drag her dark eyes upwards and meet those of her mother. The woman’s face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, dark circles beneath them. Entirely broken, in a way Lyra had not thought possible. Had belief of her death really caused her so much pain?</p><p> </p><p>“You’re alive…” Mrs. Coulter’s lips parted, her expression falling as though she had been punched in the gut, as though Lyra herself had punched her.</p><p> </p><p>Lyra had never felt more uncomfortable. She wanted to throw up. “I am.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no response, not for an agonisingly long moment. Marisa’s eyes were deceivingly calm, like an ocean rapidly receding before a devastating wave.</p><p> </p><p>“I see. Come closer. Let me look at you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! There will be at least one more chapter to this fic and possibly more if people would like me to continue. I do have a few ideas going forward! Due to work circumstances, updates will likely be 1-3 weeks apart.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Surge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A picture says a thousand words, so they say. Mrs. Coulter had stared at photos of her daughter, wishing they would speak back to her, tell her more about the child she had lost. It was cruel the way the world worked. When she had held her newborn in her arms, the helpless baby smiling up at her with more unconditional love than she had ever seen in another’s eyes, she had sent her away. Then, when she had changed her mind and wanted nothing more than to raise her own child, the girl ran from her. She was gone for good. Dead. And yet, Marisa still felt her in a way she could not possibly describe. The instinct that her daughter might not be dead was all that kept her from walking out onto her terrace and giving in to that occasional urge to jump. Again and again, she had traced her fingers over the photographs, craving to touch her child’s soft cheek instead of the cold paper. Her shoulder ached, a consequence of slamming the bedroom door closed on her daemon after he had the audacity to imply she was ‘in denial’ over Lyra’s death, but she ignored the pain. She always ignored the pain. Physical pain could not touch her. A different kind of pain, impossible to ignore, was approaching.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was the clumsiness of her reckless child’s footsteps that shocked her from her enchanted daze. For hours, she had stared upon that beautiful face that held so many of her own, and Asriel’s, features. She had stared until her eyes stung and her head pounded and the room was flooded with darkness. Even when she could no longer make out Lyra’s face and felt moisture leak from her eyes the countless time that day, she stared. Lifting herself from the bed and flicking on the lamp, her watery eyes found those from the photo, in full colour and just out of her reach.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mrs. Coulter had never been one to believe in ghosts, but at that moment, it felt like the only feasible explanation. Somehow, she had been granted a moment more with her daughter and she inched forwards, urging Lyra closer with arms outstretched, hands abandoning the photo, hovering inches from deep brown waves. A gasp was sucked sharply into her lungs, burning as though she had inhaled flames as the messy locks tangled between her fingers. “You really are alive. You’re not a ghost here to torture me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once her fingers had threaded through the soft hair once, she found herself unable to stop checking and double-checking that it wasn’t a cruel illusion. Her chest heaved with deep, panicked breaths as she grasped the girl’s arms, her shoulders, her face, the pads of her thumbs trailing along the smooth skin of her cheeks. The shock and relief were overwhelming; more forceful than any emotion she could remember feeling, and she tottered backwards, falling down heavily onto the foot of the bed, clutching at the furry, white blanket to steady herself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you okay?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mrs. Coulter laughed, a near-manic laugh that proved she was not, in fact, okay. Someone had hurt her child. Hurt her badly enough that the witches believed her dead, and <em>someone</em> would be dead when she finally got to the bottom of what had unfolded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her line of vision rose from the floor to settle softly on the girl. “Me, Okay? I’ve never been better. Come,” she instructed, lifting her arms towards Lyra. For a moment she thought the child might run, flee back the way she came as she had time and time again, so when she felt smaller hands encircle her own, her breath caught in her throat. “Sit with me.” She smiled, lips stretching out across her face, though the smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Who hurt you? Where are you injured?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Injured?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The confusion in Lyra’s expression stumped her for a second. She frowned and one hand released Lyra’s to cup the girl’s pale cheek, tilting her face towards the warm light. “Yes. Lyra dear, you don’t have to act strong for me. You’re hurt … you must be.” Shaking her head quickly, Mrs. Coulter swallowed as a sickness swirled in her chest. Perhaps she should not wish injury on her child, but the alternative if she was not harmed, the thought that Lyra had played the most devilish trick on her, was too much to bear. “Who hurt you? What did they do? How did you escape? Lyra, you must tell me. I simply require a name.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I didn’t mean it – I didn’t mean for it to go this far, I-” Lyra’s voice broke. Mrs. Coulter tilted her head in an attempt to catch her gaze, but try as she might, the girl would not meet her eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hush,” the older of the two hissed through gritted teeth, shaking the girl lightly. The hand that held Lyra’s, squeezed. “A name, Lyra,” she demanded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m sorry…” As Lyra spoke, her voice scraped a deep incision down her mother’s lungs. It pained her to breathe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lyra...” she warned, though her voice was <em>almost</em> pleading.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I en’t hurt!” Lyra’s shout engulfed the room as Pan leapt from the girl’s shoulder, a pine marten, and the child ripped her hand from Marisa’s and jerked back from her reach. “This was <em>my</em> idea. I did this, all of it. The witches helped me. It’s why I’m here now. I saw you today at the cemetery and I realised I was wrong to do it.” Lyra, who was not one to own up to her mistakes, spoke with a fierce determination and power her mother had not heard from her before, not even in Boreal’s basement.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> “You did this? Why?” Vicious screeches and hisses sounded from behind the closed door. She could feel her daemon’s pure fury, his rage. She, herself, shared that overwhelming urge to hurt the person who had burrowed their way into her heart only to exploit that power. Blood rushed in her ears as black-painted nails curled into her palm, pressing deep half-moon indents into her skin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your daemon. You shut him out?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lyra, I asked you a question.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But … why? It must be so painful…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would you rather I let him in? Because, trust me, Lyra, you <em>will</em> be injured if I do.” Mrs. Coulter was unable to prevent the threat from rolling off her tongue. It seemed to gain her child’s full attention, at least. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I just wanted you to stop following me. I didn’t think-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” she cut her child off, “You <em>didn’t</em> think.” Shaking her head in disbelief, her carefully painted mask slipped from her expression, revealing her true feelings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lyra stared back at her as defiantly as always. “I didn’t think you’d care.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lips spreading into a thin line, Mrs. Coulter stiffened, unable to break the intense eye contact with the little girl so like herself. “I see.” There was nothing she wanted more, at that moment, than to find the sharpest knife in her apartment and carve out her own heart. It stung too acutely for her to bear. Perhaps, with the organ out of her chest, she would be able to cope with Lyra’s words and actions. “You know … I’m not the monster you seem to think I am.” And perhaps it was her honesty, her vulnerability that so few were allowed to see that prompted her daughter to approach her, sitting down beside her on the soft blanket that lay, draped over the bed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re a monster.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Marisa was taken aback by that and she raised an eyebrow, a distrustful hum sounding from her throat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think you do bad things. Evil things. You hurt people,” Lyra continued, sharply, and her mother’s eye twitched dangerously. Marisa was ready to cut her off before the girl’s tone changed as she added, “But, there’s good in you, too. I can see that now. I know it’s there, you’re just afraid to let people see it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am not afraid.” Mrs. Coulter’s voice had reduced to a barely steady whisper, eyes fierce and blinking back the tears which betrayed her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lyra didn’t reply. Instead, she stared straight back at her with the same expression Marisa knew had passed over her own face many a time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You despise me,” the older woman muttered, standing and stepping close to the open window, stars glittering in the far-off distance. “I saw it in Bolvangar and again in Carlo’s basement. Now, you falsify your own death and then parade your existence after watching me suffer … and yet, you accuse <em>me</em> of hurting people.” All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, forcing oxygen through into her ever-tightening lungs. “So silent.” She turned, a tight smile pulling at her lips, eyes holding the pain that she hoped Lyra couldn’t see. “That is so unlike you, dear. Tell me … what are you thinking?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t despise you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Were those tears in Lyra’s eyes? A wave of concern washed over the hurt and she lurched forward, reaching for her daughter with hands aching to comfort, whether that was something her child wanted or not. “You don’t?” The monkey growled from behind the closed door after having fallen silent for a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No…” The young girl’s head turned towards the door, distracted by the clattering of tiny fists against the painted wood.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lyra…” Marisa prompted, one hand pressing lightly against her cheek, guiding her face back towards her as the other found her upper arm and slowly yet firmly pulled her back close, ushering her to sit beside her on the foot of the bed once more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t despise you. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I always dreamt of having my mother in my life. That she hadn’t died in an airship accident and one day she’d come and take me to live with her. And you did, but you weren’t like I thought you’d be. It was too good to be true. You done all them bad things and I hate <em>that</em>, but I don’t hate you. At least, not entirely. You’re still my mother.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s right…” Such a mystical whisper left the woman’s lips and she paused for a moment, simply gazing upon her little girl’s face, allowing her adoring words to settle on her blackened heart, chipping away at her armour. “I am your mother, and if only this world had allowed me, I could have raised you myself.” Swallowing heavily, her hand absentmindedly stroked the fluffy, white blanket. “Perhaps in another world entirely, where women have all the freedoms that have been kept from us here.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You mean Will’s world, don’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Marisa hummed in response, thoughts drifting to Dr. Malone and her ability to receive credit for her achievements. There appeared to be numerous opportunities in that world, where women could pursue their ambitions whilst caring for their children, without having to sacrifice one or the other. It flooded her with anger to think of all that was robbed from her and, perhaps, Lyra could see this as she felt a hand rest tentatively on her shoulder, long enough for the older brunette to return her thoughts and attention to her daughter. “I wanted you back … six months after you were born. I imagine they told you I wanted nothing to do with you and, at first, I didn’t, but I changed my mind. This blanket … I had a nursery prepared for you. I decorated it myself. Sent people after you, to seek you out. They failed.” Her jaw tensed at the intrusive memory of the first occasion she had wrecked her daughter’s bedroom, her nursery, in a furious rage. “I kept the blanket. Kept it safe until I knew you were coming home.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Without warning, Lyra threw herself against her chest, thin arms squeezing her tight, and Marisa nearly choked at the unexpected action. Was it another trick? Just as in Bolvangar? As much as every fibre of her being screamed to protect herself from potential pain, Lyra was the one person in any world she would risk all for, including the emotional havoc such a little girl could bring upon her. Letting her guard down, arms hesitantly rose to embrace the child, her blue eyes closing, containing her engulfing emotions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I just … I don’t like it when you try an’ control me. Suffocate me. You can’t do that anymore. It en’t right,” Lyra added, pulling back from the tight hold despite Mrs. Coulter’s reluctance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can’t let you go again. I will not let you go...” Marisa's hands covered Lyra’s, eyes open and wide and staring intensely into brown.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know.” The girl’s voice was low, reluctant almost as she stood and stepped back from the bed, tugging herself free. Before Mrs. Coulter had a chance to question her, a draft rushed through the room. Witches washed in from the open window, a human wave, surrounding her daughter. The child's head rose in her direction. Their eyes met. Lyra broke eye contact almost immediately and Marisa hid her sly smile. Witches or no witches, her child would be going nowhere. She would make sure of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have marked this fic as completed for now, as I'm not sure how quickly or when I'll be able to update. However, there is a high possibility of me returning to this if people enjoy it. I have left it fairly open-ended with that in mind!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>